Return of the Prince
by AilciA
Summary: Legolas returns to Mirkwood at last, bringing the fellowship. There's battles for all: both with minds, tongues, hearts and swords, as it seems darkness has not fully been banished from Mirkwood.
1. Poor Mr Legolas

A/N: Why hullo there! Bet you missed me... Beth, I'm looking at you... ahahaha.  
  
Ahem, yes... I am proudly pleased to announce that this is the first chapter of the Mirkwood story I've been procrastinating about for such a very long time.  
  
Little, tiny catch, though... I haven't really written the whole thing out in my head yet, and so to save you all a vast, annoying delay (like the one I've subjected my Star Wars fans to: I'm far too scared to go back to one of my stories... I think they may have given up one me!) - I decided that if I get good response off of this first chapter... 'cause I have to know whether you all like it.... there'll be a gap of about a week, where I'll write (hopefull) the next two chapters, and so I'll be at least a couple ahead when it comes to updating etc.  
  
It's far better in the long run, seriously. Trust me. lol.  
  
Anyway, I proudly pronounce that this story is dedicated to my fav. reviewer: Beth.... and my new internet bud: Jaimie.  
  
Hope you all love it, don't forget to review.  
  
AliciA xxxxxxxxxx  
  
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"Legolas! If you fidget about much more you shall fall off your horse!"  
  
Gandalf's shout from the front of the company was amused, and it caused all the fellowship to turn around and stare at the vastly uncomfortable elf bringing up the rear. The prince's leaf-shaped ears immediately flushed a light-pink colour in reaction as he stilled in his seat at once, much to Gimli's amusement, who was sitting right behind Greenleaf upon the great white steed, Arod, and therefore had a very good view. Merry and Pip sniggered heartily, large eyes sparkling with mirth, and even Aragorn turned his dark head away slightly in order to hide his unwanted smile.  
  
But Legolas did not retort with a sharp return or even glare at the Istar, but instead simply carried on fiddling with Arod's soft mane, and staring straight ahead blankly, his green eyes fixed resolutely on some remote point in the distance and flashing silver occasionally, biting his bottom lip till it was flushed red.  
  
Dark imposing trees leered down threateningly over the barely-trodden path of the company of eight travellers, gnarled fingers tempted to grasp at any unfortunate soul who strayed too far within their reach, giant trunks cruelly trapping hearts that were now evil and trecherous. Those of the fellowship who had not before travelled through the vast forest of Mirkwood were discovering that the land certainly lived up to it's name. The War of the Ring and the battle against evil may have been over for Gondor and Rohan - for the most part, at least - but the elves of this area were still galantly fighting the forces of darkness, as they had been doing for so many millenia, and unfortunately the wood about them bore evidence of this justice, as the majority of it had become twisted and under the sway of evil quite some time ago.  
  
And yet, despite the grim danger and frightening feel the forest held, Legolas should still have been happy and excited: it was his homeland, after all... he knew the ways of the wood, knew that the closer one got to the Elven stronghold in the far North-East, the grander and more beautiful the trees became, given hope and light by the elves who constantly praised them, deigning to live within their boughs.  
  
But Legolas was neither happy nor excited, and none but a scarce few could understand his behaviour at that time.  
  
Samwise Gamgee, himself utterly bewildered by the perplexing elf's strange actions, suddenly urged his plump pony to trot up to the front of the company from where he rode with his master Frodo, and he fell into step with his friend Aragorn, sitting upon the great chestnut-beast, Brego. "Mr. Strider?" asked the hobbit garderner quietly, still calling the Elessar by the name they met with, but only because the King ordered it to remain so.  
  
Aragorn - no more a king to the rest of the fellowship than ever before, for he did not act any differently than when they had all set out with the Ring two years earlier - twisted in his seat, and looked down amicably, "Yes, Sam?"  
  
"I was jus' wondering," and here Sam's voice dropped even lower, to an almost conspiratorial level, so as not to catch the sharp ears of Greenleaf. "Why is Mr. Legolas so worried 'bout returning to his homeland? I would have thought he'd be happy about coming home - I was 'bout the Shire... 'til I saw what had happened, the Scouring an' all, that is... if you follow me, sir - but Legolas seems to be almost fearing it.... I jus' don't understand."  
  
Aragorn, King of Gondor, grinned in the same haphazard manner he had during his long span as a ranger. He knew the reason for his small friend's worry and confusion, and so he explained it to the young hobbit, who did not know his Elven friend as well as he did, having not grown up with the elf as his protector and friend. "Legolas, I'm afraid, is working himself up for nothing. He believes that - once again - he shall be victim of his father's wrath when he returns home, for he left his lands without the King's blessing... The King is very strict in the ways of orders: they are to be abided at all costs... that is the way in Mirkwood - it's a matter of survival here."  
  
He sighed a little, remembering the swift but furious argument that had taken place between he and his best friend just after the council of Elrond when Legolas had named himself a member of the walking nine. The prince had been so determined to go, to 'look after Estel', as he had put it, that not even the threat of his father's temper - a threat not to be trifled with at the best of times - could reign either him or his spirit. The elf, though a wise being, had been completely unable to imagine or comprehend his best friend walking of his own will into almost-certain death without having him at his side, and had flat-out refused to be left behind. Aragorn had eventually agreed to let him come, perhaps more for his own selfish benefit than anything else: he knew he would be greatly comforted if the prince was guarding the path about them, for he knew of no better warrior.  
  
Aside from that, who would have known Legolas could be that frightening when he wanted to be...  
  
Aragorn continued, "You probably did not know it, Sam, but Legolas gave up a great deal to join us on the quest, including his father's happiness and his duties as a prince and leader of the Warriors of Mirkwood. He also forfeited the chance of attending his eldest sister's betrothal - and I can imagine that Princess Niandias was most upset. I believe that he has been able to ignore those unhappy facts during our journey by always trying to ensure that we were all safe, to look out for us. He had a job and duty in the fellowship and to his friend and his adopted-world," he paused and sighed again, "but now it seems that old fears have come back to haunt him."  
  
"Oh, dear..." Sam looked most distressed, and looked away in something like shame. He hadn't even imagined that the prince had had to sacrifice anything to accompany them on their great journey. He'd always taken rather for granted the fact that, for as long as was possible, he'd had a noble Elven warrior looking out for him and his friends, guarding them with his keen eyes, sharp intelligence and swift bow. He realised suddenly that he had not even given Legolas' decision a second thought. "Poor Mr. Legolas," he said aloud, voice saddened but heart touched that his friend would do such a thing.  
  
Aragorn chuckled deeply at the halfling's expected reaction... the young Gamgee held one of the largest hearts he had ever encountered in a creature of Middle-earth, and always gave his feelings generously to those he loved.  
  
Sam himself did not see anything in the dismal situation that should amuse his friend, and looked confused at Aragorn's surprising response. And so Strider continued, aware he had only been helpful in confusing the halfling even further, "Aye, poor Legolas... But fear not, Master Gamgee: I know Thranduil Wiseoak well, and I believe whole-heartedly that he will not be angered with his youngest son when he sees him. King Thranduil is an extremely regal and powerful elf, and most who are in their right mind do not wish to vex him, but he has no small heart... and also, one must remember that many have often said Greenleaf is not in his right mind."  
  
They both chuckled rather sneakily for a moment. Then Aragorn sobered and, leaning down in Brego's saddle, spoke quietly... as though the wall of trees about them had ears. "The King, though not one to usually show his emotions to anyone other than those closest to him, will have missed Legolas sorely when he left, despite what our Elven friend has to say. Despite the fact that Legolas defied him... but you are not to let that information escape into the knowledge of the populus of Mirkwood, for most know their King as the stern, hardened leader that he is... if you follow me." At this, both the man and the hobbit turned and looked back at the anxious Wood Elf, who now had his gazed glued firmly to the forest floor in front of his horse, his proud shoulders slanted, still quietly fiddling with Arod's mane.  
  
"Indeed," rumbled Gandalf from just in front of them, who had been listening to the exchange with amusement, making them whirl round to face him. "I know the King of the Elven Archers will be quite overjoyed to have his Little Leaf back with him again, and so Legolas may get away with being locked in the dungeons for only a short time." The wizard had had the pleasure of being in the Royal family's company for many, many years, at different points in his long life, and was priviledged to know just how fondly Thranduil viewed his youngest child, though he would never dream of showing it to any impartial observers. "Especially as it will be a great surprise, for they do not know we are coming." At this, Gandalf twisted round upon Shadowfax's grand back with a smirk and a wink, deep blue eyes twinkling almost-mischievous starlight.  
  
Aragorn laughed heartily and even Sam grinned. But then the hobbit became pensive once more, heart rebelling, "Do you not think you should, well... let him know... That is to say, let him know that his dad won't be angry with him after all... Strider?" Sam's large brown eyes narrowed slightly at the innocent look suddenly plastered across his good friend's handsome face as Aragorn shifted his gaze to the scorched bark of the large, intimidating trees lining both sides of the almost-path. "Mr. Strider.." Sam said slowly, trying to prevent the smile he felt from creeping across his lips, wariness present in his voice, "...you haven't, perhaps, thought it was a good idea to let our poor prince stew in misery for as long as possible, just for your own laughs, have you?"  
  
As he looked down at his half-sized companion in apparent shock, a look of mock-horror flashed across the weathered plains of the former-ranger's face, "Me, Master Gamgee? You believe me, someone who has known 'poor' Legolas as a best friend for decades, someone who knows each and every single way to irk our 'poor' Elven prince, every way to make him light of heart, to make him sad, to make him angered... you believe someone of that experience to pull a trick that so idiotically simple?"  
  
At Sam's raising of dark brows, obvious disbelief making them arch, Aragorn sighed and looked him right in the eyes, slate-grey against deep brown, and whispered, "Mayhap."  
  
"Aragorn, sir!"  
  
"Well..." The King of Gondor raised both his arms in a helpless position, trying to verify his actions, as if he were a mere lad, "He well and truly deserves it, letting me think I had insulted him and his family for three days!"  
  
Sam laughed aloud at that; for he remembered, not too long ago in their journey to Mirkwood, Strider making some jesting comment or other about the famed sharp-wittedness of the Royal family of Eryn Lasgalen at the campfire to make the hobbits - most especially Frodo - laugh. There had also been sneaky objective of trying to tell them more about the elven society they would soon be residing with - either way, Aragorn had not realising at the time his best friend had been standing right behind him at the time. It was only the positively stricken look that adorned all three hobbit's features suddenly that had alerted him, and he had turned in time to see the prince apparently storming off in the opposite direction.  
  
The hobbits had learned then that Legolas was extremely protective of his family's name, and it was unwise to besmirch the name of the Oaks ever. This was due to the fact that they had worked hard to make their name proud and utterly respected in all realms of Elvedom, forcefully casting aside the typical assumption that Royals were ignorant, good-for-nothing but hoarding jewels and trinkets, fools who merely sat languidly about in their lavish palaces whilst their people worked and fought for them.  
  
Obviously, once he had decided it was truly not a jest at his expense, Aragorn had felt truly terrible, seriously believing to have wounded his best friend's heart and pride, and erred most grievously. He had tried many methods to make amends with Legolas, who had neither looked at nor spoken a word to him for almost three days after the incident, something that had been fair near tearing the ranger's heart apart. It was only on the third night, when Aragorn made a particularly heart-felt plea in front of the rest of the Fellowship (declaring his undying friendship for the elf and the love of the royal family, and declaring that he would never consciously dirty the name of Oak ever, ever again) that Legolas calm visage had finally crumbled in his mirth. He had been quite unable to control himself any further, laughing melodiously. With a few tears of laughter rolling steadily down his slender cheeks, Greenleaf had managed to gasp out that he had known all along that it was a jest, and had just been letting his best friend sweat in order to feel bad. To 'teach him a lesson he deserved', apparently.  
  
"Three days!" Aragorn was sulked as though still bitter, continuing with this rant because it made him glad at heart to see the halfling Sam laughing merrily at something, anything - despite it having taken him making a right and proper fool of himself to cause it. "Three days that blasted elf didn't speak to me! I still don't know how he didn't let the mask slip and laugh!"  
  
"Well... even so, sir, I don't think it's right to let him sit and worry himself away into a stick," said Sam, still grinning slightly at the memory. He fixed wide dark eyes upon his good friend and spoke simply, "You should tell him at some point, it's not right."  
  
"Aye... aye, I will," Aragorn assured his friend with a wave of his gloved hand, serious now as well, "But it will also enhance the homecoming I know Legolas will be getting if he is expecting the worst..." he let this thought trail off invitingly, waiting patiently with a near-anxious smile to see what the hobbit's rection would be, hoping Sam would take part.  
  
After a short pause, and a shrugging of shirt-clad shoulder: "...Aye, well, in that case... you can hold out for a little while, to be sure."  
  
Aragorn laughed and shook his head again as the company rode on.  
  
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Legolas was riding at the front of the company now they were nearing his father's Kingdom, leading his friends through well-known pathways and winding trails that he knew by his heart. He smiled softly at the familiar trees he had grown up with as they welcomed their child back in deep, loving voices - too long had the prince tarried with his best friends in Gondor, it seemed.  
  
The past year he had been wholly consumed in the task of building and strengthening a new elven realm in Ithilien with his friend, the honourable Lord Faramir... Ithilien was somewhere the elf found to be most beautiful, despite the dark shadow that still threatened to strangle the fair lands. Whilst all others of the fellowship had travelled home to see their families, friends and lands at least once - though almost all returned to Gondor soon after, loathe to break the fellowship - Legolas had declined this offer, prefering instead to help build the foundations of the Fourth Age at the side of his brother-at-heart, Aragorn. The archer knew not why he had taken this decision - but he knew now, after it, that he needed to strengthen the link in his heart with his forest, he needed to remember and cherish the place that had been his home for so many lives of men.  
  
He was still incredibly nervous about the reaction his father would have when he returned home to the palace, and there was a constant coil of uneasiness to be found in the pit of his stomach. But it seemed the sickeningly-anxious feeling that had been constricting his heart since they passed through Lothlorien on the way to Mirkwood was, at that moment, being held at bay by the joy at returning to his own beautiful woodlands. Not near enough trees grew in the White City to his liking, and he resolved to speak with his best friend, the King, about planting some more.... not only that, but many of those newly-planted in Ithilien were little more than saplings compared with the mighty trees of Mirkwood, the majority of which having at least a few millenia to their names, like the elves that lived among them.  
  
The vast trunks of trees seemed to glitter green glory in the bright sunshine, though many were still scorched with obvious signs of recent battle. It grieved Legolas that he could see some that had been destroyed by way of evil: either having been burnt, or hideously uprooted, with limbs axed haphazardly away from the main trunks which mourned their loss and with deep slashes in the once-magnificent trunks that bled rivers of sap. The elven prince tried hard not to notice the dark stains of kin blood marring the scuffed grass and the bases of weeping trees.  
  
But the air, though hot with summer and slightly acrid with the faint smell of death (presumably coming from the same source as the ruined trees and the stained ground) and - as always - holding the familiar hint of the danger ever-present beneath Mirkwood's canopy, was still sweet with the smell of life. The floor of the forest was mottled with fallen sunlight and Legolas, at that moment, could think of no better time to return home. He could hear the quiet babbling of a brook far off, the faint but affectionate murmurings of the woods, intermingling with the heavy debate that was taking place behind him between Merry, Pippin, Frodo and Samwise - something to do with the right way to make a pie: what to put in it, how to decorate it, how to consume it, and so on.  
  
The prince drew a deep sigh of happiness, content with the finally- comfortable world and enjoyable situation he currently found himself in... even though something did not quite feel right in his home.  
  
All of a sudden, a sharp cry of 'Daro!' went up from the trees around the fellowship. The horses halted immediately, understanding the order implicitly, and their masters looked about wildly for whatever was upon them, attempting to draw their weapons. But they were far too slow.  
  
The whole company suddenly found themselves surrounded by the sharp edges of arrows and shining spears, gleaming wickedly at their necks, and behind the weapons, almost as though they had been conjured from thin air, were some of the most intimidating creatures the hobbits and Gimli had ever laid eyes upon.  
  
The menacing figures were mostly slight in frame but all seemed huge, and had a heart-racingly dangerous air about them. They were dressed in green and brown shimmering tunics and natural-hued cloaks that made them almost fade into the background of the scenery, and all had at least ten seperate weapons strapped somewhere to their persons. They looked to be trained assassins in the way they held themselves and looked upon the company fiercely and without mercy, eyes glinting with passionate flames that told of the utmost loyalty in battle alongside the sharp starlight present in the eyes of all elves.  
  
Gimli's hand held sway of the shaft of his axe, but he thought it folly to attempt anything: he'd be run through in mere seconds. And so he could only glower up at the creature training a deadly spear at his larynx, and was surprised to find a woman glaring back at him, a thunderous look of deadly intent upon her fine brows. What was this: women warriors? The dwarf cast an eye about the rest of the aggressors he could see, and spied a fair few others that were of the female persuasion.... surely not?!  
  
Then a tall, cloaked figure - tall even for an elf - stepped forward into one of the sparkling beams of fading light that drifted down through gaps in the trees' canopies. Flowing, light brown hair fell, unchecked and unbinded, down to strong shoulders and wayward strands were blown across a handsome, sculptured face. The hobbits found the elven warrior (for it was definately one of the Firstborn, they could tell by the light that seemed to shine from him naturally) even more frightening than those holding weapons to their necks. Severely-set were the fine features of his face, and his brows were drawn down darkly as he looked upon the travellers each in turn with an unbelievably-intense stare - lethality clung to him, almost as if it drained the air about him of it's safety.  
  
Merry felt the wind knocked out of his chest when the elf's stony gaze fell upon his upturned face; and Pippin reckoned his heart was going to burst, it raced so. Samwise thought he might drown in the ice-cold terror that drenched him all of a sudden; Gimli couldn't help but feel threatened and sickeningly vulnerable, despite himself... and the dwarf felt such noble power and potent ancestry given off by the figure, that he almost fell from Arod's back. To Frodo, the figure appeared - for just a mere second - as the Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell had done upon their first meeting: a pure light shone through a veil from the air about him... but with this creature, the light seemed to pulse with a sort of eternal strength that had not yet faded from Middle-earth, and didn't seem about to.  
  
Suddenly, eyes of the deepest grey and blue, that had seemed to be capable of boring holes into any substance, glinted suddenly with starlight as they lighted upon one of the company's number, and a hand relaxed upon the dark wood of the bow that had been raised and strung. He smiled a wide, warm grin, and hearty laughter bubbled up and out gaily of the mystery elf in his sudden delight. The once unnervingly-stern features of his fair face seemed almost to completely change, for the hobbits were no longer afraid as much - how could one be afraid of such an obviously friendly being?  
  
"Yalumme [at last], Legolas!" the elf cried with glee, his voice deep and melodic.  
  
"Fienngil!" Legolas leapt from the back of his horse, straight into the outstretched arms of one of his elder brothers.  
  
They embraced as though they had not seen one another in centuries, though it was merely a span of five years. That was not even considered a long time among Elves - but they had missed each other deeply, and had longed for this day to come for what seemed like an age. The rest of the fellowship looked on with surprised smiles as the two embraced - though the majority of the company had no idea what the relationship was between the pair, they would have to be blind to miss the love evident between them.  
  
Fienngil Morningstar set his youngest brother down and cupped the prince's pale cheek fondly, deep grey-blue eyes dancing. A crashing tide of elvish burst forth from him then, sweet upon the ears of the fellowship, "Cormamin lindua ele lle: nae saian luume [My heart sings to see thee: it has been too long]." His deep voice was so full of joy that it seemed as if it might crack, and the loving words fell swiftly from his mouth as though in a waterfall. Fienngil had been away on his own travels when his youngest brother had set off in a company intent upon saving all of Middle-earth, and the threat that he might have lost Legolas without having been able to say goodbye had terrified the elder elf.  
  
He continued, and spoke in Westron for the first time, voice holding a very heavy Sindarin lilt, "That's what the trees were whispering about - I could not follow them, they babbled so... and you were always better at understanding them than me, anyway... Ed i'ear ar' elenea [By the sea and the stars], I am now the one babbling!" And he hugged the warrior again, his large frame almost dwarfing Legolas' slight figure as the elder elf wrapped him in another, almost-desperate hug, eyes squeezed shut tightly, "Thank the Valar you are not hurt - we feared you had joined Naneth when you did not return home for so long."  
  
Legolas drew his hands up to Fienngil's shoulders and hugged back fiercely, realising suddenly that he had missed the safety he felt when he was near his family, especially his elder brothers, when they were protecting him. He hated to be coddled, all elves did, and he perhaps hated it more, for being the youngest of a large family gave everyone around him the opportunity to always try and protect him... And yet after such a long time of looking out for everyone else as his younger brothers, guarding all the fellowship and unable to once rest easy and safe, he wished - though he was slightly shamed to admit so - to be relieved for just a little while, to go back to how things were when he was surrounded by his blood-family.  
  
"I am back now," he said softly into the smooth fabric of Fienngil's jerkin. "So don't fret."  
  
It was only then that Legolas realised there was the rest of the fellowship with him, let alone a whole battalion of assorted elven warriors present. He pulled away with slight embarrassment, calling to the suddenly-familiar guards, who all smiled welcomingly back at him, recognising one of the Captains of Mirkwood's Forces now they saw something other than the threat they had been trained to regard everything as, "Release my friends!"  
  
The guards did so at once, relaxing - if these strange elves of the forest knew the meaning of the word - to stances that reminded Gimli very much of strung bows: seemingly effortless and stable, but taut and ready to snap at a second's warning. However, their faces no longer held glares of death upon them, and Gimli saw then that they were all incredibly beautiful, even by elven standards. The women had strong, noble features but a pale light about them that made them delicate and wholly glorious, and the men were both beautiful and handsome at once, their androgynous faces guarded but their eyes glittering and mouths smiling.  
  
Fienngil coloured slightly also, and straightened himself, taking on the regal, more-than-a-little-dangerous air he had carried before he had spotted his youngest brother. He then spoke fully in the tongue of Westron, though his voice carried such a heavy accent that it was sometimes hard to understand him, "Aye, who are these creatures - two I know, though one is looking slightly cleaner than is entirely usual." He shot a friendly grin in Aragorn's direction, and winked as the ranger chuckled, then smiled in turn at Gandalf, who nodded back fondly.  
  
"Come now, introduce yourselves - I am Fienngil Morningstar, Second Prince of Eryn Lasgalen."  
  
Well, that threw a hammer in Gimli's plans, for though he had guessed this to be some relation to Legolas, he could not abide rudeness. He had been about to demand that the elf tell them of his name before they told him theirs, as he had with the horse-lord Eomer (and, in actual fact, he had immediately liked Eomer anyway: he had only bristled because he could not abide being ordered to do anything by anyone other than another dwarf). But as the prince introduced himself freely, all he could do was go along quietly.  
  
Frodo - seeing that neither Merry nor Pippin were able to lift their jaws off of the floor, let alone introduce themselves - dismounted his pony with a noble-hobbit's grace, followed immediately by Sam, with a little less grace. He raised a hand to his heart and then out in front of him, greeting the elf in his own manner, "Mae govannen, I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire... Elen sila lumenn' omentilmo [A star shall shine upon the hour of our meeting]."  
  
The elven prince's face fair near lit up with a smile that would rival the Great Lamps in it's brightness, he seemed about to say something but then Frodo's companion stepped falteringly forward. Sam bowed awkwardly, wishing furiously that he was blessed with the same fitting behaviour and knowledgeable manner as his master - Frodo knew so much better than Sam about stuff like this - but nevertheless, the hobbit garderner introduced himself politely, fumbling only a litte, "I am Sam Gamgee of the Shire... I am, ah... I'm h-honoured to meet you, your majesty."  
  
Fienngil's dark-blue eyes twinkled starlight as he heard Sam's name, and he shook his fair head with a small smile, eyes dancing between the two hobbits. "Nay, my lord," he said earnestly, accent even thicker suddenly. "It is I who am honoured to meet you; you are i-Pheriannath we have been told of, and we know of your deeds. We of this Woodland Kingdom would be most humbled if you would grace us with your company at the palace." His large eyes were wide and imploring, and he bowed his proud head in utter respect to the halfling, as did all of the elven guards surrounding them, creating a silently earnest circle.  
  
Sam blushed violently with embarrassment, still so unused to this sort of praise from Kings and queens and those of the firstborn - he felt completely undeserving of it, but they would persist in giving it to him. "Oh, there's really no need to go being humbled, my lord..." he smiled shakily, surprised he had even been able to answer.  
  
"But thankyou," Frodo added quickly, ever polite, though he was slightly in shock of this mighty Elven warrior prince considering them so dignified and worthy of his distinction.  
  
Fienngil nodded kindly, then looked behind them to where Pippin and Merry were now standing, "And these tall fellows must be Meriadoc Brandybuck: Rider of Rohan, and Peregrin Took: Guard of the Citadel - the other two Pheriannath we have been told so much of. Lete it be known that their courage is now renowned, also." He bowed deeply, again not jesting, pale brown hair falling in front of his face. "It is an honour to finally meet with you two brave soldiers also, my lords - amin sinta thaliolle e dagor [I know your strength in battle]." And the pair were also left quite speechless at the elf's complete earnestness.  
  
The fair prince's gaze finally fell upon Gimli, but it was not in a haughty, disgusted way he looked at the dwarf - as a large majority of Elves did - but rather more intrigued and utterly guarded. It was as though thick, Dwarven gates of iron had been shuttered over his soul, revealing nothing of his thoughts or feelings. "And, if I may be permitted to ask, who are you?" his voice was not a sneer, nor a raised eyebrow, it was polite and curteous... even if that were all it was.  
  
Well, he is Legolas' brother, after all thought Gimli, trying not to be surprised by the prince's politeness, despite the fact he detected a large amount of coldness behind the fair words. So he cleared his throat and announced himself, not with the usual aggressiveness he had when meeting with Elves. "Aye, you are permitted: Gimli, son of Gloin," he said simply, rather pleased with himself for not adding on 'And I shall counsel you to remember it' or 'I believe you have met my father?' After all, it was probably not this elf's fault his father had been held here all those years ago.  
  
Fienngil smiled once more, though the gesture seemed a little stiff, and bowed his head courteously, and that was that.  
  
A real, warm smile took over his handsome face then , and the hobbits were reminded of Legolas slightly - though the pair otherwise didn't look all that similar, really, aside from some obvious family traits. "Come, we shall walk you to the palace... for the young Greenleaf may have forgotten the way on his travels. Tolo amin [follow me]."  
  
And with that, he led them home.  
  
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A/N: Let me know how you like this, and in a week or so and if there's a good response, I'll have a brand, spanking new beginning of a slightly long- haul story for you all. How do you like them apples? Review please! 


	2. Just one mood a minute!

A/N: Hello there, fiction-fans! Thankyou very much for your lovely (and might I say, slightly over-excited) reviews and support... each one's very much appreciated and they all make me smile a lot. Cheers!  
  
Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last, and don't forget to let me know your thoughts, opinions etc. Otherwise how can I tailor this story to suit you?! Lol.  
  
Just to let you know, I'm at a music festival from very early Friday to very late Monday (in Scotland, where I don't think it has stopped raining for about a solid week now... bad news, seeing as I am camping!), and the point is that you shall either get the next chapter on Thursday night or Tuesday lunch... or perhaps a little later. Hope you can last till then, I think you'll survive!  
  
Anyway, on with the story... and I promise there is action etc. to come, at the minute, I'm merely introducing characters and laying foundations of relationships regarding a certain elven prince that will most definitely be important later on.  
  
So here we go!  
  
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"Now, my dear friends, there are one or two things you should know about the elves you shall be meeting."  
  
The fellowship were nearing the great palace of Mirkwood and the elven stronghold surrounding it, and the hobbits were already beginning to feel a certain sort of misty enchantment in the air, and it was making them a little giddy: their tongues were a little looser than usual. Aragorn needed to warn Gimli and the hobbits of a few things before they reached it. They had dismounted their steeds and were walking at a leisurely pace in a small group far behind all the elven guards who were leading the way and might overhear to take offence - Gandalf walking among them as though he had known them for centuries (which was most probably a fair estimate). They also walked just ahead of the princes Legolas and Fienngil, who were so deep in animated talk that Aragorn doubted they'd notice a battalion of orcs leap into their path.  
  
The ex-ranger knew full well that none of the halflings had ever encountered the elves of Mirkwood before, and most probably knew naught of their strange manners and complex character traits. And - as was the way with the kin of the forest - such ignorances could lead to many unwanted incidents occurring. Also, hobbits were not generally known for their subtlety in conversation, and the King of men wished dearly to avoid any disastrous confrontations... the meeting between Legolas and his father was going to be bad enough. And so Aragorn had taken the decision to school Gimli, Merry, Frodo, Pippin and Sam in the many ways to deal with such odd creatures as the elves of Mirkwood, and recognise the sly shifts in their demeanours.  
  
"Come on then, let's be having these facts and useful tidbits," Merry laughed lightly, looking up at his tall friend and grinning impishly. He did, in fact, no naught of these strange elves, other than the fact they were both wondrous and frightening... and managed these two effects simultaneously.  
  
"Well, Master Merry, you've managed to unwittingly demonstrate one of the first rules in dealing with a Wood-elf: no flippancy... they hate it and it boils their blood when any visitor of theirs displays it," Aragorn replied easily.  
  
"What, now!" cried Gimli, disbelieving. He had the good sense to lower his voice considerably before he went on, "Elves are the flightiest of them all... why, I haven't seen Legolas pin down a single mood for any length of time throughout all the while I've known him - he goes through and discards about five in the space of one minute. You're telling us not to be fanciful?!"  
  
"Neither have I," Aragorn chuckled, "but yes I am." He sighed, amusement shining in his glassy-grey orbs, "Mirkwood elves are widely known for being the worst for flightiness... Before the race of men or dwarves or hobbits entered the realms of these worlds, Elves were bestowed with many gifts, one of them being the ability to know the greatest joy as well as the deepest sorrow in life. Now, it is my personal reckoning that Wood-elves were the first to receive this prize, and so consequently have the most infuriatingly wide ranges of emotions in all of Elvendom."  
  
The hobbits laughed heartily at this, and Gimli huffed slightly, looking less and less forward to having to stay in close proximity with more than one of these confounded creatures. "I have heard they are haughty, prideful, stubborn, argumentative and wilful... and we know all that already from our dealings with a certain elven princeling," he grumbled.  
  
Aragorn continued as though he hadn't heard what the disgruntled dwarf had said, "In truth, they have the brightest spirits in the world and their magic is some of the strongest and strangest present in these lands... but long years innumerable of constant exposure to danger and the promise of a quick death have fashioned their many wits into a suspicious kind, and they are incredibly wary. They have a massive distrust of strangers and the notion of tolerance is occasionally a completely foreign concept to them. They live on the very brink of disaster and the slightest change could see their fair kingdom destroyed... they are not wicked, but because of this, they are not always necessarily kind."  
  
The king glanced across at his companions and was vastly amused to find he held them all spellbound by his words - the hobbits' eyes were as round as dishes and even Gimli's ears seemed to be pricked. Frodo made a motion with his dark head for his friend to go on, and so Aragorn did. "This distrust of strangers has led to a very isolated existence, which is part of the reason I warn you so."  
  
"Well, if they're as flighty as you claim - and as Legolas himself demonstrates - we have naught to worry about," Gimli brought his own thoughts into the fray: it was time to stop this ridiculousness.  
  
But his friend shook his dark head vehemently, refusing Gimli's notions. "Nay, son of Gloin! The elves of this realm are highly dangerous, and it's a very foolish thing to think lightly of them, I swear it so! To underestimate them is your own doom. They have minds and tongues as sharp as the arrows they master - and these hunters have skill so that they can hit the eye of a bird flying far overhead with an arrow in the dimmest dark."  
  
Aragorn paused, trying to think of some other way to phrase his worries, "If Lorien be the home of elven Kings and Queens; and Rivendell home to the elven lords and healers... then Mirkwood is the elvish home of warriors. And that's it: no question."  
  
Merry let out a slow, deep whistle - a habit with a decidedly-Tookish origin that apparently signified an impressed halfling. Sam, however, looked most distressed, "Mr. Strider? Do you think you could let on a way of knowing how a conversation with one of these elven warriors is going... like, say, if you're on the road to insulting them, if you get me?"  
  
Aragorn shook his head again, "Unfortunately Master Samwise I cannot. All Mirkwood elves hold the uncanny skill of being able to school their features to be devoid of any emotion at all, and they do so almost without... no one can really tell what a Wood-elf is thinking, unless he wishes you to know; I will say this, though, you know you are in trouble when their eyes flash..." It was then, when he had finished his rant, that the man saw the spluttering, shocked faces of his friends  
  
"... But do not worry, I am sure they won't harm you," he added in a sheepish tone, belatedly and a bit lamely. "They really are the most fascinating creatures... once you get to know them - or they let you get to know them."  
  
"By the stars, Strider!" Pippin lamented, aghast, "I am positively fearing this meeting! I shall not know where to put my feet."  
  
"Well, it's a welcome change that you realise that this time, Mr. Pip, sir," Sam retorted, still concerned about the possibility of slighting one of these strange elves without meaning to. Sam felt awkward enough about the prospect of staying with elves. There was always a feeling of ungainliness and inferiority when one was in the company of the Firstborn, he'd always thought - without worrying about how a break in eye contact could be of consequence.  
  
The Took answered with a patented, gargoyle-like face in the hobbit gardener's direction.  
  
"You'll stay like that if the wind changes, Pip," Frodo admonished easily, concentrating on walking once more.  
  
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In order to give the hobbits - who had been travelling for quite some time - a little bit of a rest before they reached the palace, the company had stopped to rest. Though, of course, none of the elves even sat down, preferring instead to patrol the perimeters of the clearing and generally make all the mortals of the group jumpy. Frodo supposed this was the usual procedure: after all, Mirkwood was a dangerous place... even more so at the moment, as he suspected things had recently taken place that had put all the wood-elves upon high-alert. The scorched trees, bloodied ground and thick darkness hanging in the air beneath the canopy all seemed evidence of this. The gentle-hobbit shifted anxiously No doubt we'll find out sooner rather than later, more's the pity  
  
Legolas, meanwhile, was finding out the facts that very moment: he stood off to one side with Fienngil, for his brother would not divulge whatever it was within the various hearing-ranges of the mortals. "Tell me, Gil," he enquired softly, piercing green eyes trying to discern whatever they could from the Second Prince's inscrutable face.  
  
Fienngil looked slightly uncomfortable, "When adar bids it, you shall be told all that is taking place in this land." At his younger sibling's distressed face and open mouth he swiftly continued, as he could see Legolas drawing breath in order to argue. "But I shall tell you this without his leave: our home is not safe, less now than before you left... and it is our belief that the dark forces - though dealt a massive blow by the laying-low of Dol Guldur - will soon rally themselves into one last, powerful wave. And you know that the powers of good and evil are only ever balanced here, or very slightly outweighed... but we fear that soon we may be overwhelmed. You cannot miss the danger and warning of the trees."  
  
"Aye," said Legolas calmly, surprising Fienngil in his lack of reaction. "I had supposed some sort of trickery was in action... and it's not hard to guess with you and the guards as nervous as sheep at shauning-time - so much for notorious stoicism." He chuckled at Fienngil's abashed face, then sobered, "I will wait to find out what is happening, and how I might aid my people."  
  
"If adar forgives you," Fienngil added after a small pause, a sly grin strangely becoming on his handsome face.  
  
"If adar forgives me," Legolas nodded, eyes narrowed and voice a soft warning, a pose that never failed to set off alarm bells in the heads of his elder siblings. But his mock-threat relaxed when Fienngil laughed aloud, the expression bubbling with a fondly-familiar amusement, and clapped a large hand heavily upon his slender shoulder.  
  
They turned to rejoin the group, and had gone only two steps when Legolas stopped abruptly. His brother, confused, twisted his head to ask reason for the sudden halt, but Greenleaf flashed his eyes at him, ceasing this action before it had even started. Then Legolas began walking again, slowly and with an unusual gait that attracted the attention of Gimli and Aragorn, and then the hobbits and Gandalf. They saw that Fienngil walked slightly behind him, bemusement painting a fair expression upon his noble features, and it was clear he knew naught of his brother's thoughts either.  
  
Their eyes followed their elven friend as he ambled stiffly across the clearing towards them, head straight and eyes fixed forward, over to the horses and the packs. There he stooped and, quick as a flash of lightening, whirled and threw something up (and with considerable force) into the leaves of the large tree that stretched out over the clearing, making a sort of roof over the clearing with it's branches.  
  
It was with utter surprise, then, that both the mortals and elves witnessed a rather heavy horse-brush, an abundance of leaves, a bow and an exceedingly-startled creature fall from the lush green canopy of the tree with a sharp cry.  
  
The figure landed with an 'Oooof!' upon the hard ground where it then lay, groaning. The hobbits leapt to their feet and Gimli grabbed his axe, fully prepared to end the life of the figure... but all the elven warriors in the clearing merely laughed, some finally relaxing enough to sit down. Gimli thought it rather foolhardy to simply sit in the presence of peril, and he wondered momentarily at the widely-known reputation of these supposedly-dangerous warriors.  
  
"Good shot, old boy!" came a bright and jolly comment – spoken in a melodious, lilting voice - from the wall of tree trunks from the company's left.  
  
All whirled to face the giver of the compliment, glaring suspiciously into the gloom of the forest towards the direction of the voice - and out between the glittering green trunks out there gracefully stepped an elf, surrounded by a golden sort of light. This elf was slightly shorter and broader than Legolas, with two large braces of coneys and a rather heavy- looking dead deer laid across his strong back and a bright smile spread across his fair face. The potent feeling of nobility and ancestry that Fienngil had given off was not as present this time, but instead the elf seemed harsher... perhaps not in an entirely bad way: it merely seemed that this being had a more intense way of behaving.  
  
Also accompanying this queer elf-warrior - again with more weapons than was entirely necessary secreted about his person - there came three blurs of massive, ebony-coloured dogs which launched themselves at Legolas, knocking him deftly to the ground and surging over him in a sea of paws and snouts.  
  
Aragorn laughed deeply and clapped his hands together in amusement, stepping past the highly-confused halflings and Gimli - and the struggling Legolas - along with Gandalf to this new elf, both shaking his hand and clasping his shoulder, speaking fast in elvish.  
  
"Mister Frodo," came Sam's quiet voice from his master's side, "What in the name of mushrooms is going on?"  
  
"You speak for all of us, I'm afraid, dear Sam," was all Frodo could tell him, winter-blue eyes wide.  
  
Fortunately, Fienngil heard this, and decided to rescue the situation from complete madness, and explain. "Fear not, Pheriannath." He glided over to Legolas, still fighting the three formidable creatures currently sitting on his chest and pinning him. Fienngil stood and pointed at them: "These are Leogolas' wolfhounds... they are as soft as feathers in temperament to anything that is not evil - their barks are worse than their bites if you have a wholesome nature."  
  
He then strode across to the new elf, stood with Aragorn and Gandalf, and pointed at him in a similar manner before the warrior batted his hand away forcefully: "This is Arianduil Youngoak, eldest of the twin princes of Mirkwood... they are younger than me, and therefore are obliged to follow my orders." The harsh-looking elf, Arianduil, gave a curt nod of his dark, curled head and smiled slightly at the mortals - then he turned deftly to Fienngil and glared.  
  
The elder shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. He walked away to the groaning figure who had tumbled so unceremoniously from the treetops, beginning to pick itself up from the ground: "And that, believe it or not, is another one of the royal princes - Andariun Deepstream, younger of the twins."  
  
The figure finally stood, and Gimli and the halflings could see his face - it was nearly identical to that of Arianduil, though it was flushed heavily by an endearing rosiness as the elf dusted off his fine, hunting robes.  
  
He blushes more than Legolas does... Merry thought idly. Then his quick thoughts wandered further: Was it a time of twins, a few centuries ago? He recalled the twin sons of Elrond in Rivendell, though it was impossible for him to say whether the two sets of twins had been born even in the same millenia.  
  
"I meant to fall out of that tree, you know," the younger stated to the mortals, pointing half-heartedly to the canopy above, his accent when speaking Westron just as thick as Fienngil's. He righted his knife-sheaths, that had worked and twisted themselves around to his back during the commotion, and pulled hard upon the strap of his quiver which had loosened... then he quickly stooped to regain his dropped bow and, hopefully, a little bit of his dignity. Andariun also tried to ignore the laughter continuing to issue from the elven guards he had had for an audience.  
  
"Sure you did, brother," that was typical Legolas sarcasm: he had finally escaped the over-zealous welcoming of his dogs, and so he ambled over to the twins.  
  
The other twin saw him properly, and his deep blue eyes flashed, "Ah! So the wanderer returns! We wondered how long it would take for you to miss us, Legolas, and come crawling back for another dose of our dashing wit...." He stood in front of his youngest brother, rocked back on his heels and looked the silently-laughing archer up and down with a mocking eye, he then commented dryly, "I would embrace you, were it not for the hound-slobber painted all down your front."  
  
Legolas stopped chuckling and looked down at himself, and Pippin – quite astute, or so he thought, at reading his elven friend – thought he spied the tips of his delicate ears flush pink once more in his embarrassment, as his suede hunting tunic was covered in a thick sheen of spittle from his hounds. He rubbed at it in an attempt to look slightly more royal and befitting of his status.  
  
Andariun wandered up, "Aye, we're quite glad you are back, Little Leaf," he said softly. Legolas looked up, rather touched by this sincere-sounding statement coming from one of his more shy-of-feelings and guarded elder siblings... He had expected a warm welcome from Fienngil and another of his brothers, but not so much from the twins – they were more like the King in that respect. He was moved, until a jesting smile curled the corners of Andariun's lips upwards slightly, and his midnight blue eyes twinkled brightly, and he reiterated, "We're glad you are back: the dogs have missed you."  
  
"Clearly," Legolas replied coldly, deflating somewhat... and Frodo considered suddenly Aragorn's warning of being in definate trouble with a Mirkwood elf when their eyes flashed: Legolas' were suddenly like the war beacons of Gondor. Knives could have sliced the tension in the air at that moment, Gimli shifted from foot to foot, and Merry and Pippin exchanged fearful glances... the only beings seeming to remain unworried were Aragorn and Gandalf, for even the brave and decidedly fearless Mirkwood warriors shifted uncomfortably, fingering their weapons for wont something else to do.  
  
Then the three brothers, Legolas and both the twins, flew together in a clamour of loud elvish: Gimli stepped forward, ready to aid Legolas in the fray... but was stopped by Gandalf's wizened hand upon his shoulders. He glanced up, "Just look a little closer, Master Dwarf."  
  
Gimli did – though he did not understand why - and saw then that the elven princes were actually embracing and partaking in a large amount of back- slapping and shoulder-clapping, smiles making their fair faces bright and merry, and the flurry of elvish actually had a warm basis, not a confrontational one... something he had not noticed before. He all but threw his axe to the ground in his frustration, and muttered, "Dratted elves! Just one mood a minute... it's all I ask!"  
  
Gandalf clicked his tongue at him in a chiding sort of manner, but failed to hide his smile behind his white beard. It was merely the way of the Royal Family: he'd known them since long before the Crown Prince, Tusinduil, had even been conceived and they had not changed one little bit, and were never likely to.  
  
And for that, he was extremely thankful.  
  
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They were there: the company had reached the massive gates that kept the evil of the Mirkwood forest away from the settlement of the wood-elves. The gates were absolutely huge – made of many different types of wood and welded and interwoven with strips and bowers of wrought iron. The made an intimidating entrance to the realm, placed as they were between two vast oak trees, and other sorts of trees provided a natural wall that continued on from the monumental oaks, almost as though the forest itself had cultivated them merely for the protection of their beloved elves.  
  
Sam gulped, craning his neck to look up, feeling smaller than ever within this noble world. He could not know it, but diagonally across from him there stood Legolas, experiencing very similar feelings himself.  
  
Fienngil sensed this, and glanced across at his younger brother, attempting to give the archer a detached sort of support and let him know he was not alone, "This is it, Little Leaf... would you like to do the honours?"  
  
Legolas nodded mutely, stepped forward and straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat and raised his soft voice along with his arms, as if to reach the very top of the gates, and said, "Im ernil o taure, lasto beth nin [I am a prince of (the) forest, hear my voice]."  
  
Gimli and the hobbits watched in wonder as the gates, without any additional effort, groaned and swung open of their own accord to the sound of Legolas' elven voice. Slowly the gap between the gates widened to reveal a short, natural path leading to a bridge that crossed a swift river, winding up to a set of even bigger stone doors. Fierce-looking guards were stationed at the foot and head of the bridge, and just behind the gates as well. The doors were cut into the front of a formidable-looking cave, and were lined with tall beech trees, whose roots wound down to dip into the wide river in front of the cliff-face.  
  
To either side of the short path leading up to the bridge there were many trees, and partially hidden by, built around and in the boughs of these trees were beautiful huts and flets, evidently some of the homes of the Elf King's subjects. These subjects themselves wandered and wove gracefully between their homes like graceful, eerily beautiful ghosts... it seemed like a land of Kings: the elves going about their business all held themselves with a great amount of dignity, dominating the area with their pride and power. They were bright with potent light and vigour, that seemed to challenge the opinion that the time of the elves was over, and their magic was fading from these shores.  
  
It was the same across the river, though nothing was built in the beech trees flagging the entrance to the palace, perhaps as a sort of respect. Sparkling sunlight, misty in the magic-soaked air, drifted lazily throughout the area, and reflected from the river, lighting it's undercurrents and the undersides of the majestic beech trees.  
  
The company moved forward, stepping out onto the natural path in order to cross the bridge. The elves of the land all stopped what they were doing, came to the sides of the path with small - but relieved and happy - smiles as the group passed, bowing their proud heads as a sign of respect to Legolas and his brothers. Barely any of them even spared a glance at the accompanying mortals, so they experienced none of the expected disdain, just a certain amount of coldness.  
  
Legolas saw so many familiar faces, faces he had seen and loved all his long life, it made his head swim. His breathing came quickened, his legs felt heavy and the worry that clenched his insides suddenly rose once more... and all because he was drawing ever closer to his father's halls. He merely hoped Thranduil would react in much the same manner as his subjects, and merely smile at him. But he had a certain inkling that this was not the way it was going to happen... if only wishing made it so...  
  
The group passed along the narrow bridge, and through the stone doors, after giving another (far more intricate) password that the hobbits, Gimli and even Aragorn were completely unable to catch. They were then led through many passageways that gradually sloped deeper under the mountain... the corridors should really have felt claustrophobic, dark and cold, and yet surprisingly did not. This was most likely due to the fact that the halls were fairly wide and tall with smoothly carved sides, and there were windows cut into the rock along with red torches lining the walls. Also, the cleverness of the Wood-elves had allowed them to construct a way of utilising all the natural light possible through mirrors and many hollow shafts that opened onto the passages.  
  
Throughout the journey within the maze of halls of the palace, the necks of the hobbits seemed to have no bones, they swung their curly-topped heads about so much. It was clear to the four elven princes that their home had seriously impressed most of the mortals... and they were all surprised to discover a strange sort of pride stirring in their hearts at this notion.  
  
Gimli had to grudgingly acknowledge to himself that the palace was a fine example of stonework, despite being obviously elven.  
  
Very soon, they had reached the final set of doors, placed as they were very end of one of the larger halls: these doors were clearly the throne room of the King of Mirkwood. These doors were wrought from iron, oak and mithril – they seemed almost dazzling in the three beams of natural light that stabbed down from several openings in the roof, protected by thick glass. They were incredibly tall – dwarfing even the elves – but very narrow, giving the whole hall an eerie feeling.  
  
Legolas paused before raising his hand to the door handle, an accustomed habit he had gained from having done it all his long life – he had always felt the need to collect his wits about him before he entered his father's presence, felt the need to build his confidence for just a second... this made it less likely it would be completely obliterated by Thranduil's sharp glare and cutting tongue.  
  
He felt a strong hand bracing his shoulder, and turned his golden head slightly to meet the gaze of his best friend. Somehow - and this was by no means a new experience – he drew an amazing amount of strength from Aragorn, merely by watching the emotions shifting and swirling in the man's starry-grey orbs, like the sunlight under the surface of the entrance doors' river. The king of men offered him an encouraging smile, implicitly knowing all the methods that worked the most efficiently in bolstering the elven archer's confidence... he had had time enough in their lengthy friendship to catalogue each and every one.  
  
Legolas nodded in his thanks, a little too frightened at that immediate moment to do anything else. His gaze then swept over the rest of the group: the warriors of Mirkwood who had – throughout countless watches, attacks and ambushes – become and remained his friends; Gandalf his mentor; three of his most beloved brothers; the hobbits he had become so unwittingly fond of through his largest and most perilous adventure... and his best friend, one of the reasons he was so hesitant to encounter his father, the endearingly-stalwart dwarf, Gimli.  
  
He sighed, and lifted the latch of the door, pressing his full weight against it to make it open, and finally faced his father.  
  
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A/N: But unfortunately for you lot, you shall have to wait for next time to face the character Thranduil! Hope to see you then, what did you think of this? Review please! Thanks. 


	3. You have returned then, have you?

A/N: I am so very sorry about the massive delay for this... it took me three weeks to write this chapter, and upon the day that I was finally ready to post it, my computer ate it and spat it back out in gobble-de-goob at me! I was soooo annoyed and vaguely distraught... so apologies for that. I sort of lost all motivation to repeat the mistake, if you follow me.... but I am back now!

Hopefully you'll forgive me and give me a review to let me know what you think of this chapter: at the minute I reckon it was far more trouble than it's worth, but let me know you own personal views!

A few of you have commented that the welcome of the twins was 'interesting' - can I just say that it was entirely meant to be like that... I wanted the twins to appear as foreign and strange to you folks as it does to the hobbits and Gimli, and their behaviour towards Legolas just as odd. So it was, I assure you, intentional!

Cheers and sorry again!

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The Throne Room was built almost entirely for intimidation. It was beautiful, of course... but the general feel of the room did have the tendency of leaving even the most stout-hearted visitor trembling.

Legolas stepped forward and then stopped, and the fellowship along with his brothers filed in behind. The mortals craned their necks to look about the place, it's light dancing in the reflections of their awed eyes.

The large hall seemed to have been scooped from the living stone of the mountain - the rock of the high ceiling glittered with salt crystals, and the walls were shot through with silvery threads of mithril, running rivulets of light throughout. Massive pillars lined both sides of the hall, and they looked as though - throughout the ages of the world they'd seen - many hands had smoothed over and shaped them, rather than been carved by conventional tools. They were decidedly eerie-looking: thinner in the middle than at the top or bottom, twisted as though gnarled willow trunks, and their shimmering-grey hue glinting in the flickering torchlight - and did nothing to ease the company.

These strange pillars led up to two platforms, made from the same materials as the narrow doors to the hall. These structures were basked in a haze of ethereal light, as though a spell had been woven to keep the inhabitants of the grand room forever timeless and beautiful, frozen in a static state of wary observation. Of course, this haze was merely the light naturally surrounding the glorious beings, and the mortals had never seen this glow - which all elves exerted - so strong and concentrated as it was over these platforms. Upon the lower platform there were nine - rather grand looking - oaken chairs placed all in a sturdy line from left to right, four of which were vacant.

And upon the top platform there was a mighty throne, carved from a dark and dense wood. It held a flaming golden light which the mortals could barely look at, and so they were unable to see clearly the figure from which it was emitted... beside this throne sat a delicately-upholstered chair made from something like ash. This pretty chair was completely empty, but in a different way than the four lower chairs: it seemed to be completely missing something, and none of the golden light about the platforms could fall there, as if the haze simply shied away from illuminating the chair, and could not fall there.

Standing just behind and to the left of this lonely chair there stood two tall elves. The first (and the taller) was a ghostly creature, despite being both strong and broad, with long tendrils of silvery-white hair, skin so pale it looked white and translucent, and utterly colourless eyes. Within these white, gem-like orbs there shone the light of the Undying Lands, captured at some enchanted time of this being's long life and never relinquished.

This was clearly an ancient warrior of past ages, who had seen far too many battles and, though still ageless and prime, was swiftly tiring of this world and longed to return to those same distant white shores. The hints of recent fighting and struggle that marred the forest of Mirkwood outside the Palace gates had also marked this fair elf's fine features, and darkly-healing cuts painted deep red slashes across one of his cheeks, shocking in contrast to his unblemished skin.

This was Selmanias, Captain of the Guards... but he was so much more than that to the Royal Family, and Legolas' heart leapt in joy to see the elf he regarded much as an uncle.

The shorter of the two was an elf all-but bent with the years he had observed as if he had been a constant force in Middle-earth from the very first Awakening. His eyes shone with a wisdom that proved he had seen entire races flourish and then wither, as if he had simply stood back and watched Time roll on through it's course. His simple yet smart robes shrouded a vessel of great power and light... This elf seemed to be made from the very earth itself, and the unnatural age-lines marring his features looked to have been carved in the stone of his face... it was a queer thing for an elf to show age, almost impossible, but Galion - for that was his name - had seen so many Ages, had experienced so many years, that time weighed heavy upon him now: it touched his face, frosted his hair and misted his eyes... he looked like a fifty year old human would look, only far more beautiful and magical.

Others fondly nicknamed him 'Old Galion' and 'The Grandfather'... there never was an understatement so great. Galion the Butler was the eldest of all the elves in the Woodland Realm: he had earned the right to be called an 'Old Villain'.

Aragorn saw him and smiled: how many times had he and Legolas been shooed away from whatever mischief they had been making by the surprisingly nimble-footed elf? How many times had they had their ears boxed by the old devil? How many times had they proclaimed it utterly unfair that Thranduil had given the elder elf his personal leave to use whatever force necessary with his children, allowing Galion to warm their hides frequently? How many times had they been embraced in relief by the old elf after times of worry or accidents? Aragorn's heart warmed greatly to again see such a massive figure in his childhood.

Legolas stepped awkwardly forward, heart falling back down into his chest again with a thud, and he began his slow, painful walk down through the hall to the platforms and his father. He could not see the expression on the King's face, blinded as he was by the golden light that shone from Thranduil, and his breathing hitched when he thought about what he would find there when he could. He knew this dazzling display of magic and power from the Woodland ruler was mostly for show (mainly to intimidate the mortals), but he himself could not help being influenced by it, as he always had been.

Gimli thought his friend looked - at that precise moment - like a petty criminal, sentanced to death and being drawn to the gallows. His sharp black eyes caught the way the elf's slender hand periodically tightened and unclenched the shaft of his bow, clutching it until the knuckles whitened. He wondered at the severity of the King's parenthood if he instilled such terror into one so stout-hearted as the Greenleaf. The dwarf looked to the lower platform, to try and urge the figures into helping his seemingly-doomed friend, but found no hint of life there. He frowned, bushy red brows drawing down, as he tried to discern whether the five beings were simply marbled statues dressed up in Royal finery.

Indeed, Sam was thinking much the same thing... but he found these 'statues' to be possibly the most enchanting things he'd ever seen, and he simply couldn't tear his eyes away from them, not even in his worry of Legolas' plight. The figures grabbed his attention and held it in an irreversibly tight grasp, showing no sign of releasing it any time soon.

This was understandable, and the poor hobbit gardener was not the first to feel so: the Royal Children were mesmerising in both appearance and behaviour - almost all were already betrothed or, at least, loved by many suitors - not only did they look beautiful and act with such potent, inherited power, but they held great wisdom and knowledge of all things, ensuring they were apt leaders of their father's realm, and deserved to be honoured.

Not only that, but they had wit enough to entertain an entire hall-full of feasters. If they wished to, that is.

Sam looked at the figure sat upon the far right of the platform. This male elf had large green-grey eyes and long dark hair which fell thickly onto his strong chest from the ornate silver circlet upon his severe brow. His powerful face seemed to be a complex merge of both Legolas and Fienngil's, holding a conflicting strength and softness that demanded respect and humility - he was tall and slender, but obviously held a strength few, even elves, posessed. A smile was dancing in his bright eyes, and a cleft in his pale cheeks spoke of a small grin as his attention followed Legolas upon his slow approach. His fine clothes and intense nobility did not, surprisingly, frighten Sam, and he found himself liking the look of this strange elf, for reasons his mind knew naught of, but his heart did. This elf reminded him of Legolas.

He was unaware that this fine young elf was, in fact, Tusinduil Grownoak, the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm, and was a scholar capable, even then, of ruling the Kingdom just as he ruled as the head of his own young family of wife and two elflings.

Sitting to the left of this being, in the next chair was a handsome elf-maiden, with a straight-backed posture and formidable features: hawk-sharp were her deep grey-blue eyes, and her knife-like cheekbones, snow-pale skin and slight frown gave her a harsh look. A queen, she looked - stately and magnificent, with her dark head held high and her proud shoulders thrown back. Niandias had been like a mother to her siblings when their own was taken away from them, and though she possessed the kind, caring nature and patient temperament of the late Queen, Whiteblossoms' appearance was more that of her father's... quite unnerving.

There was then a gap of three empty seats before Sam's eyes beheld one of the most beautiful creatures Middle-earth had to offer... on a level with his Rosie, just about, he reckoned. A beacon of sunlight this maiden was, and so aptly named: Esladiya Sunbeam. Her wild curls were spun threads of the Sun itself, and they fell at length to frame a pretty, heart-shaped face. Wide eyes, light grey in hue, shone with eternal happiness, and her smooth rosebud lips were drawn into a sweet smile at seeing her youngest brother's return. A force of goodness she was, intent and pure, and all who knew her loved her soft nature and gentle way.

Sam heard a small, contented sigh from somewhere beside him, and turned to see that Pippin had a dreamy look about his face and his orb-like eyes were filled with the golden light this maiden gave off... he looked much like Gimli had when the dwarf had met the Lady Galadriel. The hobbit gardener stifled a snigger, thinking he really couldn't blame Pip: this shimmering grey-clad elf-lady was so utterly beautiful, she threatened to steal one's breath.

Beside this fair maiden was another male, slender and delicate, and with a face as glorious and as pale as the moon's own countenance. Ithilmir had been named after the light that shone in his grey, gem-like eyes, capturing the magnificence of the clear night's sky all elves loved. A quiet, reserved look he had about him... the physical representation of Legolas' own, more understated moods. But he shone with all the strength of a flaming star, giving off a muted passion and light that few dared defy, but now he smiled upon seeing his brother approach.

The next chair, the second-last one upon the lower platform, held another elf-lady, but this maiden was unlike her closest sister - she was a dark, intense beauty, with massive dark-blue eyes - framed by black lashes - and masses of brown curls that fell down past her waist, partially clasped in golden clips. Her eyes were sharp, but she looked as though her tongue was sharper... her tempestuous countenance was impassive and utterly unreadable as she watched Legolas. Aricesla Evensun could be as awkward and as misunderstood as her father, when the mood took her... but when she fancied it, she could be as sweet as honey. At that moment she was undecided.

These were the names and faces of Legolas' most loved - his family... he knew in his heart that whatever arguments and grievences they might have had before he left his home, they would forgive him and welcome him back home. Thranduil, upon the other hand, was an entirely different matter. Which was why the elven archer didn't really look at his siblings, eyes fixed as they were upon the King.

As the time since the company's arrival in the Great Hall had lengthened, the golden haze around the main throne had drifted, so that the owner of the magical aura was now able to be seen.

In one hand, a carven staff of oak was held as if it were the very meter of justice, and the other hand, firmly grasping the arm of the throne, looked - even as it lay idle - to have strength enough to squeeze an enemy's windpipe till his lungs were no longer able to draw breath... with frighteningly little effort. Straight and thick shining-golden hair tumbled down from a crown of warm metal, wreathed in the likeness of summer leaves, and fell upon proud, broad shoulders clad in ornate finery. His skin seemed to radiate a golden glow, exuding nobility and a great worthiness few posessed. Threatening blue eyes, as dark as glowing coals and as hard as diamonds, glared out of a handsome, powerful face and shone with a determination and spirit only attained through intense training and infinate personal strength. This gaze was like lightening bolts of pure energy, and it hit the entire company hard as it swept over them.

This was Thranduil Wiseoak... this gaze was renowned: it was one very few people could either escape or soften. The King was good - a little short-sighted at times, too intent upon protecting his own people and Woodland Realm to be overly inclined to help his other kin. But nevertheless he was a creature naturally bred with a great dignity and noble pride (though some might venture to call it arrogance), and he was one of the fiercest elves the histories of Middle-earth had ever sung about... whether it was protecting his loved family and friends, defending his Kingdom, debating lore or even just playing a round of archery, Thranduil always fiercely gave the matter at hand his entire attention and heart. His very feeling was that of a mighty King and hero, and he radiated power and charisma, and the promise of merciless wrath.

Legolas could barely breathe, so nervous he was around his father... he loved him, and the King had always made it clear (in his own way) that he loved his youngest son as well, but Legolas had neglected his duties as a Captain, had deliberately disobeyed his King, and had worried his father... all actions punishable by a spell in the Mirkwood dungeons.

He came at last to the two platforms, and respectfully bowed before them, falling to one knee and lowering his golden head till his fair hair lightly swept the great marble floor. There was a silence in which Legolas held his breath and Aragorn tried hard not to fidget - his human reflex of twitching during tense silences had an amazing ability to send Thranduil into a temper, as he had learned hard from experience. The three other princes accompanying the mortals stepped forward and formed a line respectfully behind their youngest brother, also bowing their heads.

"Tiro me look up, Legolas," the booming voice echoed from the high ceilings and carved walls. Thranduil had spoken.

The young prince drew in a deep breath and obeyed, his eyes dragging slowly up from the ornate floor, across the platforms and up... until they latched onto the King's own.

A storm of feelings was raging in the deep, age-old orbs eyes of Thranduil... anger, relief, amusement, betrayal, annoyance... all warred with one another in a desperate attempt to win and come up shining along with the starlight in the elven orbs. This storm travelled across the hall, and all present held their breaths to see which one would succeed.

It was a combination. Relief, reproach and amusement swirled around and within one another, and the King's awful gaze softened most unexpectedly. He tapped his fingers lightly upon the wooden arm of his throne as though impatient and, golden head tilted to one side and voice goading, said, "You have returned then, have you?"

Legolas, who was still uncertain as to how well he had read the situation, decided to play it straight, "Aye, my lord."

Thranduil sniffed, gaze shifting to the nails on his tapping fingers, "All present and correct? Ten fingers, ten toes and two pointed ears?"

The prince stifled an un-royal snort, and nodded quietly.

The King smiled warmly for only a second, softly whispering, "Good." Then his harsh gaze snapped up to the eldest of the twin princes, "Arianduil." The dark-headed elf stepped forward, his game still slung over his strong shoulders. Thranduil nodded with commendation, "As ever, your deft hunting skills have impressed us once again."

This comment drew an exclamation of disbelief from one of the line of princes, and all turned to see the other twin, Andariun, move forward swiftly, a hand raised in objection. He blurted out, "If I may be so bold, my King, might I inform you that I was also a factor in the success of this hunt... had I not sacrificed my own personal safety and gone bravely into the darkest depths of the forest to flush out the game, my dearest brother would not have had anything to shoot!"

Andariun seemed to realise this glory-seeking might not have been the best course of action for him at that precise moment - his twin's dark head whipped round and Arianduil glared at him, eyes flashing a warning as well as a threat - and so lowered both his arm and his head.

The wonderfully deep sound of Gandalf chuckling permeated the hall, and Merry looked back to see the wizard sharing a fond glance with Aragorn, who also smiled warmly. The hobbit looked up at the Elven King, expecting to see some sort of rebuke upon his fair face, but was met with an equally bright smile... and Merry thought he spied one or two of the younger elves on the lower platform shaking their beautiful heads and rolling their eyes in mock annoyance.

Thranduil was never one to be outdone, though. "None of that shall matter, my princes, if you do not get your winnings along to the cook as soon as possible... Belphadon will have both your heads if your tardiness stops him from being prepared for the great feast we are to have tonight, you know what he's like. And mark my words, I shall not stop him," the King said this sternly, and ignored the fact the elder elf, Galion, had to stride out of the room immediately in order to make preparations for such an impromptu decision. Thranduil couldn't have cared less: Legolas had returned to him.

The matter of why the young prince had been away from him in the first place was another matter. One that would most definately be settled at a later date.

Shaking himself out of such unpleasant thoughts, Thranduil looked up to see three of his sons bow and leave the hall, and this motion dragged his eyes towards the contingent of mortals that seemed to have suddenly invaded his palace... the four little ones seemed harmless enough - standing nervously and doing their best to keep his eye, though none could resist looking away - and though Aragorn and Gandalf weren't harmless by any means, both were welcome in his Kingdom at any time. Thranduil couldn't help thinking, however, that one of this band of mortals looked distinctively like a dwarf... though his brow seemed proud and he carried himself in a way that suggested he was one of noble birth, the King ignored these facts and saw Gimli exactly how he wanted to see him: unworthy.

"Legolas, you know I don't take pleasure in ignorance... come now, you know your manners, and yet I know naught of these mortals," he said briskly, motioning with precision towards the group.

Before Legolas could react, Aragorn stepped forward, strong chest rising as he inhaled, ready to launch into a detailed introduction of himself. But Thranduil cut him back swiftly, "Step down, Estel... if you think any of the population of Mirkwood have not heard your name, you are very much mistaken, idiot boy." To warm the cold harshness of his tone, the Elven King allowed himself a small smile as a sequel to these words and Aragorn, chastised, stepped backwards with one of his own, hidden behind his scratchy beard. He looked, at that moment, rather like the dark-curled, whirlwind of a Man-child that had first graced the halls of Eryn Lasgalen, decades ago, instead of the proud King and equal he now was.

Gandalf gently clapped the human on the back with a large hand, chortling. "Aye, to be back in Mirkwood..." was all he, rather cryptically, said.

A/N: There you go, all rather full of descriptions, that one... there will be another chapter where you see Thranduil's reaction to each of the mortals. Hope this suffices for now... hope you liked it, let me know! Also, very sorry about delay!


	4. All the wine in the air

A/N: Aye, there's no doubt about it... I did go on a bit of a description saffari with that last chapter. Fortunately for you, I doubt there'll be such another heavily described one - we're coming up to the action soon!

Anyway, thankyou very much for sticking with me, and for your reviews which I absolutely love getting. Just to let you know, I will be getting FAR more regular with my updates, and you have my sincerest apologies for making you wait so long.... I'm back at college now, and I underestimated quite how much work there is to do! So, sorry about that.

The next two chapters are not a long-winded descriptions, but more as two series of vignettes all taking place during one evening celebration feast, as I had far too much information to put in this chapter, and it would be too much of a slog if it ran in a conventional story-sense. If you like this way, good for you, if not, don't worry, it's a bit of a one-off.

Let me know!

Oh, by the way cough BETH splutter there's an appearance from an original female character in this chapter... now, I am not one for Legolas/ofc love stories, but past reviewers following me from 'Vignettes', 'May his Light...' and 'Survival' have been badgering me about her for too long, and would be greatly upset if she were not included. Those of you who stop reading at the first sign of love, never fear: she is merely part of the background of MY Mirkwood, and will not feature heavily in the story. So don't worry, 'kay?

* * *

"Now, Drogoion... is it my imagination, or do all those Pheriannath born under the name of Baggins have a certain... how shall I say it.... unusual flair for adventure and mischief? I am no scholar of your people, but it does strike me as unusual that the two halflings that have left the most impression upon me in recent years come from the exact same clan, and are in fact quite closely related - can you defend yourself, sir?"

Frodo grinned up at the baiting elven king, Thranduil's glittering golden light reflecting in the hobbit's large blue eyes, and momentarily pondered the seemingly-wayward creature.

The free-running wine was making the hobbit's head buzz, and the magical music that swirled all around the Grand Hall - up to the echoing stone roof in fact - made it hard for him to concentrate... But merely an hour ago, in a stark moment of clarity, Frodo had come to the conclusion that he really, very much liked King Thranduil.

They were in the middle of a merry feast, celebrating the safe return of the youngest prince. Bright torches and lanterns flickered, the stones around them rang with the sound of the many elves' laughter, intoxicating smells of roasts (Belphadon the cook had apparently outdone himself) and sweet bread wafted through the hall, and the singing and dancing was unrivalled in it's beauty. The swirling gowns, skirts and hair of the many wondrous elves made a kaliedescope of forest colours, and the hall seemed to shimmer with magic.

The company themselves were all wearing their best clothes, as the elves obviously were - Pippin and Merry itched in their spanking-new, heavily-pressed, uncomfortable linen shirts, Aragorn was still getting used to wearing the clothes of the King he had always been, having spent so many long years in the comfortably-worn hide of a ranger... and Frodo had a lot of sympathy for poor Legolas, who was obviously having trouble not fidgeting in the Royal gowns and silver circlet of Princehood he had been 'conned' into wearing by the Crown Prince. One pale hand kept reaching up automatically to loosen the high, stiff collar rubbing at his neck, and one could almost see him mentally forcing it to be placed diplomatically on the table-top instead, trying to physically control the urge to rip the 'foolish thing' off.

Tusinduil, sharp eyes spotting this pattern earlier (and what with him being the reason Legolas was wearing the finery in the first place), had made a joke that all this time away had made Legolas unfit for court, to which Legolas had finally grinned a little, green eyes showing a bit of their old sparkle. He had swiftly answered, "In your opinion, dearest brother, I never was fit for court!"

But even with all this going on around him, Frodo could barely take his eyes off of the King, who sat close by. Thranduil, for the moment, appeared like a jolly old hobbit who had never quite grown up: for all his piercing blue-grey eyes and deep-set frown, the ancient elf was currently very lively and witty in his conversation, making his guests at the Head Table laugh heartily along with him, and seemed as sociable and amusing a creature as Frodo had ever had the pleasure of meeting, though he knew better than to expect the same mood in an hour or so... he knew Legolas well enough, after all, and according to Aragorn and Gandalf, the two elves were spirited very much alike... and that was usually the problem.

Thranduil even seemed to be making a bit of an effort with Gimli - he had asked him at the very beginning of dinner if the meat was to his liking, to which Gimli had grunted in a typical way and shifted uncomfortably and mumbled something along the lines of an agreement. This small touch, this one tiny gesture of good will (though it had been followed by a slight sneer on the ancient elf's behalf) had made a deep impression upon the young Baggins, who had deemed the King suddenly in his own mind as 'a capital fellow'.

It was, however, still quite tricky to answer the old devil, and Frodo had to ponder his words - and all their possible meanings and interpretations - very carefully before he was able to answer his questions. But before he was able to formulate a response, Thranduil's quick mind seemed to have changed track, attention span seemingly as impossibly short as a certain Tooklander's:

"You look a lot like him, you know."

"Pardon, my lord?" Frodo was a little surprised by the comment that had appeared out of the blue, and was unsure.

The King smiled gently, eyes dancing, as he recognised the look on the hobbit's fair face as one he had been met with many times - it seemed few others had a mind like his, and even fewer could follow it's many thoughts. "Bilbo... you look a lot like him." He paused, and sipped some wine from his golden goblet, acute eyes never leaving Frodo's face, then he wiped his mouth most un-Kingly with his sleeve, and continued, "Not as in identical, of course... and your eyes must most definately be those of your mother... but still, there's something in your smile..." he trailed off again, before nodding and stating, "It is most becoming."

Frodo didn't quite know what to say, and Thranduil realised this. The great golden elf bent his head down a little, thick hair falling forward from his shoulders, and whispered conspiratorially, "That's quite a compliment... accept it, for I do not give them often and I mean it in the warmest regard."

"B-but of course, your majesty," Frodo was horrified he had forgotten his manners.

But Thranduil didn't seem to mind at all, and layed a friendly hand upon the hobbit's small shoulder, squeezing it in an understated acknowledgement of the mutual trust and bond of friendship the two beings had discovered unexpectedly.

* * *

Pippin was absolutely enthralled.

First of all, he couldn't believe he had been allowed to sit up at the High Table with the Royal Family of Mirkwood... he felt very proud to be thought of as an equal to all the lord and lady and elven types who sat there. Of course, the experience would not have been complete had Gandalf not taken him aside before the feast had started and sharply reminded him of all his codes of etiquette and protocol, everything he'd learnd growing up as a hobbit-lad.

And for the first couple of hours he'd been very prudent, and ever mindful of Gandalf's hawk-like glare from further down the table... but the evening was lengthening, and the elves seemed to have relaxed somewhat. So he couldn't be blamed for doing the same, now, could he? Especially with all the wonderful singing and dancing going on all around, and all the gorgeous food being served, and his wine glass miraculously staying full... of course he couldn't be blamed.

That was how he had become sat, placed in between the two princes, Andariun and Arianduil (who he still had difficulty telling apart, though he was getting slightly better at it now), listening in awe as they recounted past hunting misdemeanours and some of the fairly major accidents they'd experienced throughout their long lives. Pip found them to be very engaging, and they seemed to like him, too, though they couldn't quite understand him sometimes, and seemed to find it difficult to comprehend why he was still eating and picking at bits from his plate. They were full and so had stopped eating, and had seemingly never heard of 'filling in the corners', much to his annoyance.

Across from Pip sat Sam, who was in (and had been for quite some time) quiet and gentle conversation with the beautiful prince Ithilmir. The Took thought it was quite touching to see Sam's round, freckled faced completely open and unguarded, massive brown eyes drinking in the sight of the elf sat next to him, who only ever raised his star-grey eyes to stress a point, and who's soft, musical voice never seemed to lift beyond the strength of a murmur. Ithilimir was obviously telling his own stories, and from the looks of Sam's face, they were good. Pip decided he would have to ask for a retelling at some later date.

His cousin Merry was further down the table sat next to the friendly prince Fienngil, who the hobbits had all decided they liked very much - and both beings seemed to be currently in the thoes of a mild hysterical fit.

* * *

The tall warrior-elf was wiping tears of mirth from his dark lashes, and slapping his large hand down flat against the table top in his amusement, the young Brandybuck's tales of strife at not getting home in time for dinner getting far beyond reason.

Merry grinned himself and continued, feeling the power he held to make ageless elves chuckle coursing through him. He laughed out loud as Fienngil snorted on his wine when being told about Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday bash, but when the prince threw his head back, thick light brown hair falling down his back, and roared (at the part where Merry and Pippin were caught, red-handed, by Gandalf in his fire-work cart), Merry's dark eyes caught sight of something, and he stopped laughing.

Fienngil, still chuckling, noticed the hobbit's expression and frowned a little. But then he must have realised what Merry was looking at, as a large hand went instinctively to his right ear, covering it from view.

Yet Meriadoc Brandybuck's curiosity was notorious in the Shire, and with good reason... so he momentarily ignored good manners and common sense, and raised the question he was dying to ask, shouting it over the sudden swell in the music all around them: "My prince, if you don't mind me asking, whatever happened to your ear?"

It was a good question, for when Fienngil laughed, his head tilting backwards and mouth agape, exposing straight white teeth like the jaws of a lion in Harad, his long hair had fallen away from his neck, revealing his ears for a moment. And Merry had seen that the right ear was half-missing... there was no elven point at all, the appendage not curved in the usual leaf-shape... rather the ear seemed to simply finish just above where it attached to the head. There was no fresh wound, no scab, it just... ended. Merry would have assumed that Fienngil had been born like that, if it weren't for that annoying fact that he was one of the Firstborn, and such a defect was physically impossible.

Fienngil flushed a little, withdrawing his hand, and Merry's stomach suddenly panged for fear he had insulted the warrior and was soon to be one with the rats in the dungeons of Mirkwood. But then the handsome prince smiled, and merely answered the question, and Merry was able to breathe once more. "It was bitten off, a very long time ago, by an orc."

The Morningstar could plainly see in the charming face of the young hobbit that Merry was not in the least bit satisfied with this rather succinct explanation, and so he continued, "By the Valar, you halflings never tire of your terrible affliction of question-asking, do you... I shall tell you a short story, then, seeing as your people seem so eager for them..." At this point, Fienngil glanced down the table at Pippin and Sam, both absorbed in elven tales.

Merry smiled and nodded eagerly, "And seeing as your people are renowned for telling them."

The prince grinned warmly in answer, and bowed his head in a gesture of admitting defeat, if Mirkwood elves ever did such a thing that is, and so began in a story-telling voice:

"A long time ago, there was a surge of unprecedented trouble upon our western borders. We dispatched warriors to fight, and of course these elves in turn dispatched with the said trouble quickly (Fienngil said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the worlds). But yet more trouble came, again and again, and what with the direction and course of the trouble, the King wisely believed it would only be fair to warn our kin in Imladris and the Lord Elrond that trouble appeared to be heading his way, as the warriors of the Homely House - though undoubtably brave and capable - deal with it rarely and might have been caught unprepared.

"Five elves were chosen as the messengers, they included myself and Legolas; Legolas' faithful personal guard, Abrome; a very experienced (and very grumpy) stealth warrior called Maegathir; and Tauredal, who was another captain and a close friend of ours. Anyway, we travelled to Imladris, and were just about to reach the borders of that beautiful land when we were ambushed by a strong contingent of orcs."

Fienngil looked down to see Merry absolutely enthralled by the story - he grinned to himself and continued, "We had been taken by surprise, and there was many... we killed them all, but not one of us escaped without wounds. Maegethir's left leg was very badly broken and his fingers of both hands all but snapped off, lying at different angles across and behind his palm... he was in a great deal of pain. Abrome had recieved a very nasty slash across his chest, leaving him dizzy from blood loss - he had gained it trying to protect Legolas and I, as his job is. Poor Tauredal was unconscious for reasons I knew not at the time (I later discovered he had been clubbed over the head with the flat of an orc scythe). And, having fought to the very last and then crumpled across the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood, lay Legolas."

Merry gasped in horror, breaking the spell for a moment. He looked a little sheepish at his outburst, and Fienngil felt a great deal of warmth towards the perculiar little creature then. It had seemed like there were no other beings in the room for a while, just himself and this amazing halfling.

He carried on retelling the story of that day, decades ago, that still brought a knot of cold, stark fear in to his chest, "He had been run through with one of those evilly-barbed orc-swords, and it had shredded his insides.... I was so sick from worry for my dear brother that I did not realise half my ear had disappeared till I collapsed into Lord Elrohir's arms upon arriving at Imladris House, having aided in carrying Legolas, both of us now half-dead from bleeding out."

Fienngil laughed again, eyes twinkling, "I was teased for a very long time after that, by members of both households... we never were able to find the rest of my ear." He shifted in his seat, strong dark blue-grey eyes seeking out Merry's chestnut-brown ones, "I wear my hair loose, without warrior-braids, to cover it: I don't mind my wound at all, and think it's amusing when people ask me about it, I've had it for so long... but I do mind people staring from afar."

The young Brandybuck nodded in a queer sense of understanding - having returned to the Shire from his quest, he and his companions were no strangers to being stared at... he had enjoyed the uproar he and Pippin had caused with their new-found height and strange clothes at first, but it became quite tiresome after a while.

But questions still burned in his through, demanding release, and he blurted out, "But what about Legolas? I presume he survived, seeing as he is this very minute sat but three seats away from me, flicking peas at Strider."

Legolas himself appeared to hear this, as a pink sort of flush crept along his high, pale cheekbones and pointed ears, and he set his catapult/fork down at once, folding his hands to the sound of Aragorn laughing triumphantly and Gandalf clicking his tongue in annoyance at the 'pair of fools'.

Fienngil beamed at the hobbit, greatly amused by Merry in general. "Aye, he survived: it was touch and go for a while, we feared he would not pull through, for the wound was most horrible, and poor Lord Elrond and his two sons had tried everything they could...

"But then one day a dark-haired, wild-eyed human child - with curiosity more bountiful than any halfing's - had been so intrigued by the striken elf-warrior, lying limp and pale in a bed in the house, that he disobeyed strict orders designed to keep him away from the injured creature, and crept into the room when no one was there... The wounded elf-warrior happened to drift into feverish wakefulness for a mere moment, and spied this human-child at the side of his bed, staring intently at him with slate-grey eyes that housed the shine of the stars.

"The elf-warrior croaked in Westron, 'What are you doing here, human-child? Should you not be with your father?' for he knew not who this child was, having never met him before. And the human-child replied in Silvan as good as if he had been born in a tree that he most certaintly should not, and would the elf-warrior please hurry up and get better, for his father was heartsick with worry and so stressed to find a remedy for him that he no longer had any time to play."

"Let me guess...." Merry said, a bright and happy smile cracking like dawn across his face as understanding struck him.

Fienngil nodded again with approval at the hobbit's powers of deduction, "Aye, the human-child was indeed Estel... Legolas (you know well what he's like) was vastly intrigued by the odd little fellow: the human-child had a way of making him laugh unlike any other, and he found it interesting to simply talk with the intelligent seven-year-old, and could do so from dawn till well into the evening.

"Day by day, miraculously, the wounded elf-warrior regained strength and recovered, finally able to walk around and fire his beloved bow once more, in about half the expected time... he still claims it was down to the charm of the human-child that chatted incessantly at him from his bedside, simply not allowing him to fall back into unconsciousness."

Fienngil smiled fondly, looking back across at his youngest brother and best friend, who were in the middle of a quiet, focused talk despite the clamour of laughter and fine music all around, leaning into one another and speaking in hushed voices. He had never told Aragorn how thankful he had been for returning his brother to him... but he had the feeling the man knew regardless.

* * *

Aragorn slyly glanced out of the corner of his eye while he drank wine from his gold goblet, as if trying to weigh Legolas up.

He was a little concerned: his best friend was clearly very happy to be home and with his own people, and had laughed and joked with his brothers and sisters, and he was meeting once again with old friends he'd had all his long life. But as the night had worn on, Legolas had become curiously quieter and quieter, withdrawing further into himself, till now he sat all but alone at the High table as others had left to dance and sing and converse.

Now, Aragorn was no stranger to this kind of behaviour from his elven friend: Legolas was a naturally quiet and reserved elf, liking to slip away into his own thoughts from time to time, and sometimes despising crowds so much he fled them for space in his own head and the light of the stars... but not at a banquet held in his honour, and not when surrounded by the people he loved the most in all the worlds.

Even if he was wearing clothes he abhorred.

Deciding to take action, the King of Men placed his goblet firmly back down on the great oaken table, wiped the wine from his lips with the back of his hand, and turned to his friend. "Come now, Legolas - you have said not five words in the past half hour... tell me what is wrong, for I know you enjoy a party as much as any of your joyful kind, probably even more."

Legolas looked a little startled by Aragorn's quick perception, and at once opened his mouth to deny such a thing, but at the look in the human's knowing grey eyes, his proud shoulders sagged... he knew the game was up: Aragorn knew him too well.

There was a pause while the prince tried to find words to communicate the turmoil of feelings whirling like the elven dancers all around inside his chest, and when he finally spoke, all he said was: "He has not yet spoken to me alone... and he has deliberately designed it so." Then his eyes fell away from Aragorn's, and he was suddenly focused intently upon the knots in the oaken table.

A penny the weight of a solid stone dwarven-pillar dropped at once in Aragorn's mind, and he felt foolish for not realising the problem before then. He thought about what he could say, and reached out a hand to place it comfortingly upon the elf's slender shoulder: "Ah, Legolas.... mellon nin, please don't think like that... I reckon he just hasn't had much opportunity to- "

"You know my father well, Estel," the prince's fair voice raised, and his golden head whipped up to stare pointedly at his best friend, green eyes flashing angrily. "You know that when the King of Mirkwood desires something, he will make the opportunity to achieve it."

Aragorn kept silent, knowing all too well that this was true. The elf before him sighed a little, releasing his anger to the air, sadness washing down through his next words as he shrugged, "I expected him to be angry... furious, even, over the way we last parted and the length of my travels." Legolas even smiled slightly, "A long spell in irons was what I believed was to be my punishment - at the very least, I was going to have the very hairs on my head raised by a level of shouting and yelling not yet experienced by Lasgalen's ears... but to be simply ignored..."

He looked downwards again, smile vanishing as quick as it had appeared, long lashes hiding his eyes, "He could not have thought up a better punishment."

Aragorn's heart went out to his friend: it seemed that Legolas and Thranduil could never quite catch a break when it came to their relationship with one another... they were far too alike to ever be simply peaceful in each other's company: it was either one extreme or the other with the two frustrating elves. Aragorn himself believed that the father and son might love one another a little too fiercely, making the fact that they rarely understood each other all the worse... as both ever struggled for the other's well-being and trust, without ever really knowing the best way to go about it.

Elves Aragorn thought with a shake of his tousled dark head, glancing up at King Thranduil and finding him also staring off into his own personal space, oblivious to the ordered chaos around him. He knew instinctivly at that moment that the Elven King was desperate to speak with his son, but was unsure as to how to behave and which course to take... and Aragorn had enough experience to know that Thranduil was consequently post-poning the inevitable confrontation until he was able to figure it out. The wisest beings in all of Arda, and they still cannot talk to one another

But instead of voicing his thoughts, Aragorn tried to console his friend, "Mellon nin, do not think it so... all the wine in the air has made your thoughts run away with you- "

"Estel, I attempted to speak with him," Legolas interrupted. "Frodo was speaking to Fienngil, and Gandalf to Esladiya, and so when I saw they were both occupied and my father was not, I left my place and went to him. I tried to speak to him about all our plans for Ithilien and the eventual aim of taking some of my people there from here, in the hope that he might be interested or show that he cared... but he swiftly became angry and waved me away like I was some mortal messenger from one of the Woodland Settlements, saying that then was not the time to trouble him with such irrelevancies."

Aragorn could see that the comment and behaviour had deeply hurt the prince... but the man had the benefit of being and outsider looking in, and was also able to see Thranduil's side of things.

Legolas sometimes was unable to gauge the correct times and places to mention certain things, a trait which made him utterly unable to have any diplomatic responsibilities in his Kingdom, unlike most of his siblings. It was somewhat of a notorious joke in the Palace: the young prince had a unique way of saying things without any ostentation whatsoever... consequently, without any 'cushioning the blow', as it were... and people who weren't used to it could find this odd tactlessness quite unnerving. King Theoden and Lord Eomer being excellent examples of this reaction in practice.

And Aragorn imagined that the proposal from his only-recently-returned youngest child to take a contingent of elves from him and his waning Kingdom - at a time when the King was desperately trying to stem the flood of elves leaving Mirkwood and Middle Earth, for he felt the poison of darkness and evil far too swiftly drawing in all around his city and he needed loyal subjects to defend it - was probably not the thing Thranduil would most like to here at this particular juncture in time. Although he knew it in his heart of hearts, Thranduil had always adamantly refused to succumb to the idea that the the time of the elves was fading.

But Legolas' pride and, Aragorn hated to say it, inherent arrogance made it hard for him to fully consider every single possible feeling of those around him, though he tried hard and his consideration for others was notoriously boundless. It was what had partly led him to leave with the fellowship, what had made him stay the longest at the end of the quest, and what was now causing him trouble with his father. It was something the prince had been born with, and had forever struggled against... but not even if the stars changed their very courses, would Legolas be able to conduct himself the way he did without any effort like, say, Frodo Baggins managed.

Having said that, it was clear to Aragorn that Legolas - for all his jokes and bravado and misgivings - had missed his father and family while on their long journey... and was now quite crushed by Thranduil's behaviour.

Sighing in frustration, trying to think of what to say, the man's eyes wandered the brightly-lit hall. Suddenly he caught sight of someone he knew, without a doubt, would cheer Legolas' flagging spirits, and a rugged grin warmed his features, making his grey eyes crinkle and sparkle, and a warmth grow in his chest.

He nudged his best friend with his elbow, eliciting a grumpy hiss and a sharp glare from Legolas (who seemed to be in no mood to joke that evening). Aragorn ignored the elf's bad-tempered behaviour, and instead nodded his head in the direction of the middle of the hall. Legolas' golden head turned to follow his friend's gaze, and his breath latched in his throat.

There, in the thick of all the dancing bodies, motionless body, clad in the softest material of deep red and softly illuminated by the torchlight flickering all around, stood Evylenn... Legolas' best friend in Mirkwood, and someone he had known for many millenia but thought he would never see again. He had mourned the quite-overwhelming idea of losing her during long nights there and back again, and had discovered whilst travelling with the fellowship, quite unexpectedly, that he loved her dearly and always had done. Legolas had even gone so far, with this newly recognised insight, as to promise himself he would tell her his true feelings if he ever made it back home.

And here she was, looking more beautiful than he had ever thought possible.

Without another word to Aragorn - and ignoring his knowing, smug look (entirely unbecoming of a King) - Legolas left his chair. Green eyes stared into twin pools of rich hazel as he slowly closed the gap between them. For just a second, it was as if they were the only two beings in the room... the sweet music drowned out by the hammering of his heart, and the torches dimming till all he could see was the warm light on her pretty face.

Evylenn simply stood still, waiting for him, shocked that he was finally home.... after all these years she could speak to him, physically touch him, and make sure he really was unharmed and returned to her. Tears of happiness and relief glittered in her already-sparkling eyes as he walked towards her as if in a daze. She had missed him bitterly - more than she had either expected or thought possible - and had come to realise that the ever-present burning in her chest and thought in her head was that of deep love... more than that of one friend for another.

Suddenly, he was stood before her, and she drank in the sight of him, just as he did her. The torchlight set his hair ablaze, shining like morning-glory, and his lean, strong body seemed even more proud and triumphant now he had returned, but his handsome face - seeming to have lost just a little bit of the resiliant innocence it had held when he set off for Rivendell (strange that a warrior of his experience could have the idealism he still held within his heart) - was softened as he watched her. To him, Evylenn appeared to be a queen: fine mahoghany curls let loose, intelligent hazel eyes wide and happy, soft cheek flushed with relief and rosy lips struggling to hold onto the beautiful smile that kept threatening to escape.

There was a pause, as both stood, enchanted by the other's mere presence. And suddenly they were together, one unity, lips pressed together in an expression of pure love and relief and happiness. Legolas' hand tenderly brushed at a tear drying on her cheek, and she held him close with both hands upon his shoulders.

They broke apart to the sound of applause, as the elves around them saw that their long-anticipated predictions had, indeed after many centuries, become true. Merry and Pippin, who had been dancing close-by, grinned idiotically at the two elves, and then at one another, and Frodo nudged Sam with his elbow, making the gardener turn about and, upon seeing the pair, chuckle and roll his dark brown eyes in fond amusement. But in the blinking of an eye, Evylenn punched Legolas in the chest, knocking him back a few paces with a look of comical surprise upon his fair features, an injured air about him as Fienngil let out a roar of laughter and approval at his youngest brother's humiliation.

The elf maiden pointed at his face with one threatening finger, and her eyes flashed with a dark fire: "That's for not coming back sooner... do you know how worried I've been?!"

Legolas grinned boyishly at that, cares forgotten as he saw her concern, he stepped forward and once more drew her to him, where she buried her smile in his neck, breathing in his soft scent.

Aragorn stood upon the platform of the High Table, a smug look of ridiculously-misplaced pride upon his handsome features: it appeared he thought he was the one who had engineered the whole affair and had brought the two together, and seemed to be very pleased with himself for doing so. He rubbed his large hands together with satisfaction and then straightened out imaginary creases in his silken formal tunic, before glancing around, hands on hips, as if expecting others to rush forward and congratulate him for his success.

All he recieved was a wry, questioning stare from King Thranduil, watching him curiously out of the corner of his eye, one golden brow raised in a half-hearted challenge. A slight smile was being descretely hidden behind his bejewelled hand, as he tied to cover the fact that he was over the moon about the reunion of his son and Evylenn.

The man quickly flushed a little and, giving a slight shrug of his broad shoulders and relaxing his arms, turned away sheepishly, as if he hadn;t been expecting thanks in the first place. Thranduil only chuckled and went back to watching Legolas from afar.

End of Part I.

* * *

A/N: What do you think? I am promising action very soon, I just have to sort through the plot lines and characters and exposition first, kay? Hope you're enjoying it anyway, please review and let me know!

Oh, and by the way, I've only just learnt how to seperate the little bits within the chapter, so I'm sorry if up to know you've had to guess where one bit ends and the other begins!


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